


Someone Saved My Life Tonight...

by RainyMeadows



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Blood Loss, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Feels, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Layton Kyouju | Professor Layton Spoilers, Major Character Injury, Miracle Mask Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, Title from an Elton John Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25302289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyMeadows/pseuds/RainyMeadows
Summary: Stumbling through the streets after a horrible attack, Hershel Layton is rescued by the last people he ever would have expected.
Relationships: Jean Descole & Hershel Layton, Randall Ascot & Hershel Layton
Comments: 19
Kudos: 65





	Someone Saved My Life Tonight...

Keep moving, Hershel.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop walking. Don’t stop moving. If you keep moving, you’ll eventually come across someone. Anyone. _Anyone_ who could help you. There has to be someone out here this late at night…

…someone who won’t attack you like _that_ man did…

He repeated it to himself in his mind, over and over, as he stumbled down the street, his hand pressed as hard as he could manage against his left side. He could feel a burning hot wetness on his fingers as he crashed into a streetlamp, and he leaned against it to catch his breath.

He looked up, straightening his skewed hat, and searched around the street for any pedestrians who could be nearby. His vision fuzzed and blurred with every turn of his head.

“…h…”

His foot slipped out from under his body and he only barely managed to catch the lamp post in time to avoid falling. He couldn’t fall. Not now. He knew that to collapse now would mean he couldn’t get back up again.

“…help…” he gasped. “…someone… _help me_ …”

Even if there had been someone to hear him, he hadn’t spoken anywhere near loud enough to catch their attention.

It wasn’t fair. This was Monte d’Or, one of the most populated and tourist-filled cities in the United Kingdom. How was it possible that he was in the one part of town that had _nobody_ around to come across him?

He pressed himself away from the streetlamp, still clutching his bleeding abdomen, and kept walking. He _had_ to keep walking. He was sure to come across _someone_ who could help him. Someone who would call an ambulance or the police or at the very least, give him a bandage.

There was no way Professor Hershel Layton could fall to a wound from some random knife-wielding thug on the street.

Thank goodness he still had his wallet, at least. Whoever that thug was, he’d been satisfied with the money and hadn’t felt the need to take Hershel’s entire wallet.

So if he did lose his strength and pass out in the street, whoever found his drained body would know what to carve on his tombstone.

He cursed himself. He couldn’t think like that. Even if every step was agony, even if every movement cost him more blood, he _had_ to keep moving.

The situation was nothing if not frustrating. He wanted to give himself puzzles to solve to keep himself awake, but if he took even one moment to shift his focus away from staying awake and moving, he’d end up on the floor.

Keep moving, Hershel, he had to remind himself. Keep moving. Just _keep moving._

What terrible luck that this would happen so far from the Dromedary. Moving as slowly as he was, it would take him until noon tomorrow to get back to his hotel room and meet with Emmy and Luke. It wasn’t fair to them. They _needed_ to know what had happened to him, especially if he really didn’t make it back.

And thanks to that thug, he couldn’t use a payphone to connect with them even if there was one on this street.

It would be so much easier to move if he didn’t feel as though his entire torso was on fire.

His leg shuddered under his weight with every step and he couldn’t keep himself from stumbling again, shooting another stab of agony through his body. His gaze was filled with nothing but the golden-lit footpath that blurred and spun before his eyes.

Voices.

Somewhere far away, he could hear voices.

His leg slipped again and he fell against a wall, struggling to stay upright.

“…help…” he choked.

He couldn’t make out the voices, but somehow they sounded familiar. Something in the back of his mind told him that he knew these people.

“What the- Layton?!”

“Hershel? Is that you?!”

He wanted to reply.

But he couldn’t find the strength. Couldn’t find the breath.

His leg slipped out from under his body and he fell to his knee, concentrating all of his remaining strength on holding his wound, until his vision blurred and spun and everything finally faded out into darkness.

* * *

Weightlessness.

Someone was holding him. Carrying him.

He heard a voice somewhere far off in the distance.

Through the blur of his vision, he could just about see a face… a white mask, a scarf the same colour… a grimace of determination…

…and then everything went dark again.

* * *

“…won’t wake up!”

“Of course he won’t wake up! Did you _see_ how much he was bleeding?! It’s a miracle he isn’t dead!”

Everything was still blurred and distant. He could see dark, indistinct shapes moving around nearby, apparently people, and he could feel something supporting his head, but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t summon the energy to say a single word.

“…way to save him.”

“No, I know there isn’t, but _you_ know how much I hate needles!”

“Please keep _still,_ Master…”

And just like that, the darkness came flooding back.

* * *

Warmth.

He was warm. Lying down on his side. Under his hand, he could feel… fabric.

He took a deep breath. Scents blurred together in his nose. He could just about pick up… disinfectant, laundry detergent… engine oil… he could hear clanking machinery and a whir of an engine, but they sounded a million miles away…

…his head felt cold. His hat was missing.

Hershel mustered all the courage he had and opened his eyes.

The room he lay in was bathed in the faint blue glow of moonlight. He could see the edge of a mattress just in front of him, and beyond that was a window that gave him a view of the night. Lights in the distance slowly came into focus and he recognised the skyline of Monte d’Or, twinkling far away.

What was this place?

Where was he?

The piercing agony in his abdomen had faded to a dull ache. Something he could manage. He pressed on the mattress and-

“No! Don’t you dare!”

A hand thrust into his arm and shoved him down again.

“You just spent who knows how long bleeding all over the city!” snapped a voice. “You’re not going _anywhere_ until you’ve had some time to rest!”

Hershel didn’t have the energy or pain tolerance to resist.

But why did that voice sound so familiar?

The person who had spoken was sitting on the bed he had been laid on. In the dim moonlight, he could see…

…dark eyes, an explosion of deep red hair, a length of fabric tied around his neck…

…no…

…no, it _couldn’t_ be…

“…Ra… Randall?” Hershel could barely believe what he was seeing. “Is… is that you?”

His skinned was tanned, glasses missing, hair wild and uncombed, but there was no mistaking it.

He blinked a tear out of his eye as he looked down at Hershel.

“Hello, old chum,” he said softly. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. It just was _not possible_ for Randall to be here, right now or at any other time.

But why did it feel so real? Why were these bedsheets so soft? Why was his vision and hearing so clear?

Hershel took a deep breath and tried to clear his head.

“…is this…” He wished he had the strength to pinch himself. “…is this a dream?”

Randall looked away with a sigh. The city lights twinkled in his watering eyes.

“…yes,” he said. “And some dream, isn’t it?”

He looked out the window with a gentle smile.

“Back from the dead after all this time,” he said wistfully. “What a shame it couldn’t be real.”

He wiped his eyes on the back of his arm.

“You gave us quite a scare, Hershel,” he said. “We honestly believed we were going to lose you. It was touch and go for a while there, but it seems you’re going to make it through the night. If you do, then…”

His eyes closed.

“…then we can return you to the Dromedary,” he continued, “and you can go about your time in Monte d’Or as though nothing ever happened.”

So hesitant. As though the words passing through his lips were the last he ever wanted to say.

“…what…” Hershel tried to concentrate through the indistinct mass of his mind. “…Randall, wh…”

“What happened?” asked Randall. “I’m afraid we can’t be sure of that. We found you stumbling around the backstreets, bleeding like a stuck pig. Didn’t take long to figure out you’d been stabbed. Trust me when I say that if we find the bastard who did it, he’ll be the only victim of the next Dark Miracle.”

His eyes narrowed, fingers tightening on the edge of the bed.

“…R-Randall…” The fuzz of Hershel’s mind was buzzing like a swarm of hornets. “…I… how did…”

“Does it matter how we got you here?” Randall pointed out. “Dreams work in mysterious ways, my friend. For all you know, we could have flown here on the back of a peacock.”

He chuckled at his own joke.

“What a spectacle _that_ would be,” he commented. “Even the Masked Gentleman would be jealous, wouldn’t you say?”

Hershel’s fingers curled into a fist around the mattress cover.

“…that isn’t…” He summoned all of his energy and eased himself up on his elbow. “Randall, how are you here? What happened to you?!”

“Stay down, you fool!” Randall shoved him back down into the bed. “Do you have any idea how much blood you lost? You need to _rest!_ ”

Hershel could only wish he had the energy to resist.

As it was, all he could do was lie there and stare out the window that sat in front of him.

What a shame the city lights were so bright. If the stars were visible, the night would have been nothing short of beautiful.

A lovely view and a comfortable bed…

…and his best friend, right here by his side…

Hershel’s grip tightened on the bedsheets.

If this was a dream, even with the pain in his abdomen, he didn’t want to wake up.

“…Randall…”

“Conserve your strength, Hershel. Don’t talk. Sleep if you can. If you can’t, I’ll see about getting you some painkillers.”

If only he could fight back.

If only he could sit up unaided and hug his lost friend, show him how much he had missed him, how every day since losing him had been plagued by the memory of failure and fury at himself for allowing Randall to plummet into that darkness…

…if only he’d held on for just a _little_ longer…

Even if it was a dream, would this be the only chance he ever got?

He tried to calm himself. Tried to steady his breathing. Every exhalation sent a bolt of pain shooting through his body, but if he didn’t try to control himself, he’d only end up making a scene.

He eased his arm out from under his body and reached for Randall’s nearby hand, but even as he struggled, the dark hand shifted out of his reach.

Hershel’s breath hitched in his throat.

And now his throat was hurting too.

He pressed his head harder into the pillow so that Randall wouldn’t see any tears he couldn’t hold back.

“…I’m…” He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “…I’m sorry…”

There was no response.

“I’m so sorry, Randall,” he managed to say. “I should have protected you in Akbadain. I should have been able to save you.”

He wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve.

“I don’t know why…” Breathing had become so difficult all of a sudden. “I don’t know why I didn’t try harder. I should have pulled you up. I should have stopped you from trying to cross that river in the first place. I…”

His breath caught again and sent a pulse of agony through his body. When he pressed his fingers to his side, he felt…

…a seam. In his skin.

Somebody had sewn up his wound.

Had it been Randall?

No, if this was a dream, then…

…then he wasn’t here, and Hershel was speaking to empty space.

There wasn’t any point to anything he was saying.

Randall wasn’t here. Randall couldn’t hear him. Randall had been dead for nearly two decades by now and there was nothing anybody could do to bring him back.

But it felt so real. It looked so real. The pain in his abdomen and his heart… it all felt so _real._

“I’m sorry, Randall,” he choked. “I’m _so sorry._ ”

He needed to stop. If he started crying now, he was only going to put himself in even more unimaginable pain.

He couldn’t bring himself to look up any more. Couldn’t bear to look at his fallen friend. Not after how horribly he’d failed him.

But as he lay there, contemplating how he’d let Randall down, he felt something soft and heavy drape over his body.

And when Randall had finished positioning the duvet, he looked away again.

Hershel tried to focus on the window. He didn’t deserve to look his friend in the face.

Part of him wished he’d been left to die on that footpath.

For such a failure, it was what he deserved.

“Is he awake?”

Another voice.

A far more familiar voice.

Hershel couldn’t move. Terror had paralysed his body.

Not him. Not now. Not when he didn’t have any chance to fight back.

“What are you doing, you fool?!” Randall’s weight vanished from the bed. “You should be resting too! After all the blood you had to give, you shouldn’t even be standing, let alone-”

“ _You’re_ the fool if you think I’m some weakling!” snapped the voice of Descole. “I’ll have you know that I’m an astoundingly fast healer, Ascot, and I don’t need your patronising attitude masquerading as concern for my wellbeing!”

Still unable to move, Hershel heard Randall sigh.

“Unbelievable,” he groaned. “Fine, I’ll leave you two alone. You deserve one-another.”

He stomped out of the room.

If he wasn’t so terrified, Hershel might have laughed. Even in death, Randall was astoundingly dramatic.

Thank goodness he was gone. Whether or not this was some cruel conjuring of his mind, he couldn’t bear to share the same space with Randall for one more moment.

But if this… if _he_ was the alternative…

Approaching footsteps. He was walking closer.

Even if he wasn’t frozen in fear, Hershel didn’t have the strength to move. There was nothing he could do. He was injured and exhausted and utterly _helpless-_

There was a sigh.

“What am I going to do with you?”

He heard the fluttering of fabric, and before he knew it, he felt another layer of weight fall over his body. Another blanket, perhaps?

And then Descole walked into view, and Hershel could only lay there, waiting to see what he would do.

He wasn’t wearing his cloak.

Was…

…was _that_ what he’d given to Hershel? Had he given his cloak as a blanket?

“…what…” Hershel struggled to breathe. “…what are you planning to do with me, Descole?”

Descole’s fists clenched. His teeth gritted, hands trembled, and he turned to the window, clearly glaring behind that mask of his.

Wait…

…Randall had said he’d lost a lot of blood… he’d said Descole had _given_ blood, but it was obvious he wasn’t bandaged at all…

“The moment we’re sure you can function unaided,” the taller man said, “we’ll return you to your hotel room with your assistant and apprentice, and you can go about your little investigation as though this never happened.”

He fell to his knees.

Before Hershel had any chance to react, Descole threw himself upon him and clutched him tight. His body was trembling.

“Don’t you DARE scare me like that again.”

This had to be a dream. There wasn’t any chance this was real.

Descole was… he was _afraid._

Descole had _saved him._

If only Hershel had the courage to ask why.

But after the ordeal he had suffered through tonight, he couldn’t help but think that he rather needed a hug as well.

He shuffled, forcing back another wince of pain, and managed to return the hug.

“…thank you,” he muttered. “For helping me.”

Descole sighed.

“…you _fool._ ”

He released Hershel and relaxed out of his grip, and pulled the covers up to the helpless man’s chin.

“Rest while you can,” he said. “You’re safe here. You have my word as a gentleman.”

Hershel had no idea how he could respond to that.

But as he settled into the pillow and waited for the darkness to claim him again, he knew that he was ready for this dream to come to an end.

He hoped he wouldn’t remember anything once he woke up.


End file.
